


The Rescue

by wede_fic (frahulettaes)



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-08
Updated: 2009-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24067654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frahulettaes/pseuds/wede_fic
Summary: This is an Easter Egg for a 2009 SPN Big Bang called  Morgan's Free Rangers: A Tale of Courage and Daring in the Tayasha Badlandscharacters: Holly Hunter/Christian Kanesummary:Sometimes you have to run and sometimes it's when your running that you find what it is you really want.https://fanlore.org/wiki/Morgan%27s_Free_Rangers
Relationships: Christian Kane/Holly Hunter





	1. Chapter 1

His thighs ache from standing in the stirrups but he doesn't dare sit. His aim is sharper without the rolling sway seated and though he's not seen them for nearly an hour and his horse is white with sweat, he can't let his guard fall. The sun is hot on his face, getting lower over the red rock mountains. The bandanna over his mouth is wet with sweat and covered in a thin film of dust.

He's breathing as heavy as Santiago; blowing hard, nostrils flared.

Night is coming and he's got a long way to go.

*~*

They're down to two, but he's got a bullet in this thigh and Santiago can't see the canyon at night, so he's got to stop. Santiago is loping now, run out and dripping. They're going up, the trail is sloped and curving around great round pillars of red stone.

He hears a shot but no answering bang of bullet on stone. He ducks anyway, laying low over Santiago's neck, reins slack, his thigh burning bright and harsh. Two more shots, further back, farther away. He breaths, hopes his luck holds. Rides.

*~*

There's a thick paste dry in his mouth. That and pain are the first things he feel when he wakes. The pain makes him wretch, he rolls to his side and is surprised by soft linen and calico quilt. A cool hand strokes his cheek and he tries to shy away but the pain and vomit are too much and he gags and coughs up what little he'd eaten a day ago into a blue enamel soup pot.

“Sshh now darlin', let it go. I got you.” He barely hears the words and can't focus too well but it looks like an angel is sitting with him on the bed, hands heavenly cool, head a nimbus of blond hair. He wonders if he's dead. When the pain returns he curses heaven, the Gaelic falling rough and gasping from his mouth.

*~*

His dreams are filled with pain.

*~*

In this dream, there's the far off sound of someone in pain. His gut twists, he knows who it is and tries desperately to find that voice. Room after joined room reveal no one, his panic grows, stairs appear and he lifts his right leg to the first step and wakes screaming in agony, his thigh on fire.

*~*

“What's your name, darlin'?” His angel's voice is soft and heavy with the south. She sounds like brown sugar and hot summer nights and he turns his face into her cool palm.“Mine's Shy. Shy Hunter. You're safe now, safe, Darlin'.” 

He starts to make out the words, knows from the way she's talking low and soothing that she's done this before. She's a banaltra and he relaxes fully for the first time in days. “There y'go, sweetheart, just like that.” He smiles at the endearment and fades back to blackness.

*~*

Birdsong wakes him. He feels like crap, mouth dry and back aching from laying for too long.

He stretches softly and cracks an eye, crusty with sleep. His room is plain, split wood and a rough plank on saw horses for a table. Iron stove radiating softly in the corner and one window, by his bed shows the sky, blue and a thin rim of red canyon wall at the bottom.

He's alive. Tired, dry, in pain, but alive. Peace lasts just a moment, panic swells and he croaks out, “Santiago,” and tries to move.

“Stay still, sweetheart, lay down, you'll open your leg, damn it.” Her cool hand pushes his chest back, and he's weak as a kitten, has to go back down. Curses.

He wets his lips, tries but he's dry. “Santiago...”

She looks at him and he's startled by how beautiful his angel is. Fine boned like Peking China. He gasps. “My horse, Santiago...”

“Is fine. Here drink this...” She leans forward and he sees the fine grain of her skin. In her hand is a small Japanese cup, steaming, she holds it to his lips. “Careful, careful..” She tips it up and sets it softly against his lip. He sips. It's sweet and blessedly wet. He drinks the full cup, sip by sip, and falls back, exhausted.

She sets the cup back on the table and sits back. She's wearing leathers, chaps over dungarees, leather jacket over thick chambray and a wool vest. She's all earthtones; tiny, fine-boned, and breathtakingly beautiful. He swallows.

“Kane.” He manages. She cocks an eyebrow, a little smile tips her lips. His heart wrenches. “Christian Kane. You asked me, you asked...” Talking is tiring and she lays a hand on his chest. 

Smiles. “Pleasure to meet you, Chris Kane. Sleep now, sweetheart.” 

His eyes droop and he sleeps.

*~*

She comes and goes.

Sometimes, now that he's lucid, she goes for the day, leaves him water and tea and something to eat and leaves before dawn, returns at dusk, dirty and tired. She's meticulous. Guns always clean, everything in it's place.

He's surprised by his feelings. He's not a lover. Never takes the time to stay anywhere, usually just finds a striapach, something quick, no connection, something to ease the tension.

It's been a fortnight here, in her bed, only the last few days awake, and it's longer than he's stayed with anyone save his brothers. And she's a woman. The feelings throw him, make him uneasy and angry. He's never wanted someone soft and small. Someone fine as silk and prayers. The thought of bedding her scares him something awful.

Still, it's all he can think of.

*~*

“Where do you go?” He finally asks her.

She's making biscuits, her chambray covered in flour, hair in a soft tie in back.

“To the Canyon. You ready to get out of that bed? I thought we might get you outside today, day's nice.” She cuts the last biscuit and lays them in a cast iron pan.

“God yes.” He flips the covers off his legs and swings them over the side of the bed.

She's right there, dusting flour from her hands and slipping them under his ankles. He's in a nightshirt, his legs bare, the right bandaged from knee to hip. He squirms thinking about those times she'd changed the linen, set poultices on his wound, seen him fully. Even his arousal. Which, he was damned to find, worked just fine despite his wound.

“Slowly, slowly.” She helped him up and he found himself leaning down, his arm across her shoulders and she was so tiny yet strong as an ox. Together they shuffled towards the door and she kicked it open.

Sunlight spilled across the lentil and he gasped in a deep breath. The sky opened away from the cabin, huge and sprawling. They were atop the canyon wall, the view looked across a great open valley, clouds scudding huge and purple white. The garden was a stark green contrast to the windswept red hills. Amidst the herbs there sat a long chair, back set to a comfortable angle, made up like a bed with blanket and pillows.

*~*

He spent the better part of the next week in that chair. Shaded and sleepy. Day by day his anxiety, his need to move drifted away, was soothed away by soft small hands and a lilting southern drawl.

She was a loner, a canyon dweller and banaltra and more than that he couldn't manage to get from her so he'd stopped trying and began to just enjoy her company.

*~*

“Stage went through today, down at Kosse.” She told him quietly, while they worked at making dinner together.

He stopped, head down.

“Christian,” She whispered. His christian name sounded like heaven from her mouth.

“I should go.” He said, belly heavy and full of regret. “I should,”

“Don't,” she said, gasped.

“Why do they call you Shy? Why do you live here, where's your family? Damn it, Shy.” He grasped her shoulder, turned her. Her lips where soft, she fit his arms like a gun to a holster, light as thistledown, heavy as thunder in his heart.

“Don't go. Don't leave.” She whispered between kisses, gasped against the skin of his neck. He lifted her, his thigh complaining and just made it to the bed before he couldn't.

“Shy, Shy...” He was terrified but so swept up he couldn't stop. “Help me, help me, I don't, I've never.”

Buttons slipped, laces loosened, he swore at her trousers and she laughed. “Christian,”

He was lost in her skin and the smell of her, the soft curl of red hair between her thighs, her breasts round, silky smooth, nipples pink, peaked. She clasped his hand, moved his fingers down, brushed them between her lips. She gasped and he groaned, pressed hard against her thigh.

He swore, the Gaelic hard then soft as his fingers slid inside her. She kissed him, pushing him back and he broke and shook his head. “No, no.”

But she shushed him and rose up, threw her leg over his hips, his fingers still inside her.

“This way, slowly, slowly,” She drew his hand away and pressed it to the bed. “Let me,” she whispered, her face slack with pleasure. Her hand found his cock, held it in place, set the tip to her lips and pushed down.

He'd never felt anything like it. Petal soft, slick, he grabbed wildly for her hips as she rode him like a slow wave.

He came with a shout, only moments later, his thigh screaming at him, breath gone out. Her muscles gripped him, her head back, she rolled her hips, grabbed his hand, covered her breast with it, showed him how to softly pinch the raspberry tip. He grasped the other, still shivering from his own orgasm, pinched them together and rolled his hips, up, up, felt her grip him hard and she cried out.

Light moved heavy and lilac through the cabin, birds sang and still they lay together on her soft quilt.

He stroked his hand over her hip, her hair fanned out across the pillow.

“A chumann,” He whispered, his voice suddenly loud in the quiet room. "what's your name?"  
"sweetheart" - IR

“Shy. Shy Hunter.” She answered, her lips making soft kisses on his chest.

“Shy, what's your name?” He asked again.

She was quiet for so long he thought she'd fallen asleep.

“Holly.” She said, the barest hint of sound.

“Holly.” He echoed the name, sounding it out, seeing how it felt. “Nice to meet you, Holly Hunter.”

She rolled her hip, slid her thigh between both of his and looked at him through the curtain of her hair.

Her smile, when it came, was true and sweet.

“Nice to meet you too, Christian Kane.”


	2. Santiago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easter Egg from Morgan's Free Rangers  
> Santiago
> 
> author: wede-fic   
> rating: R  
> characters: Holly Hunter/Christian Kane  
> summary:It's been a solid month since Christian's seen his horse.

He's awakened by a chill in the air and ginko leaves shivering, yellow. He counts out the days and finds he's been on the canyon for nearly a month and that chill means its the first of September. He rolls out of their bed, leg stiff and achy, and pulls dungarees over his long johns. Makes a stop at the chamber pot and heads out, coat slipping over his shoulders, scavenged scarf around his neck.

It's long past time to see Santiago.

He grabs his cane, sturdy manzanita wrapped with leather made by Holly, and tries his best not to hobble. 

Still, takes him a fair few minutes to make it to the corral behind the house. 

The day is crystal clear, sky sapphire jewel, sun canary yellow, shadows soft lavender. Still makes him take a breath, that dizzying spread of land and sky. He shakes his head and gasps, the bullet wound biting in the cold air. Takes him a minute to register Holly's voice floating towards him. She's laughing, voice warm and softly slurred, drawl sweet as brown sugar. 

"Where are your manners, young man? You're worse than your cowboy, y'know that?" She laughs again, low and he hears Santiago blow and wicker. He burns with embarrassment for eavesdropping, then hot with arousal, hearing her free and easy a new sound, irresistible.

The trail winds. It's a rugged track of slight downs, ups, around a crop of stone. It's here he stops, leans with a sigh and watches.

She's sitting on the top rail, a tiny bundle of leather and denim with Santiago's head in her lap. He rubs his nose under her jacket and she throws her head back, laughs. His head nods and he snuffles. She winds fingers through his mane with one hand, the other appearing filled with tiny irregular lumps of sugar. He backs a tiny step, a shift of weight really, and lips at her hand, swiping her palm with his tongue, catching every grain of sweetness.

Santiago butts Shy, chins his way over her shoulder and catches sight of Christian. His ears prick up and he whinnies, nearly knocks Shy off the fence, pushes the top rail with his chest, neck stretched.

Christian pushes away from the boulder, makes his way towards them, smiles at Santiago, warm and open.

"Hey, partner." He walks straight into Santiago, breathes deep the sweaty sweet smell of him, lets his cane go and wraps both arms around the wide arching neck. He starts whispering, the soft Cherokee slip sliding around them. Santiago whinnies, a soft little sound, blows into Christians hair, chin firmly over one shoulder.

"I swear, it's almost like he understands what you're saying." Shy says. She's slipped off the fence and come around, leaning back, one foot on the lowest rail.

Christian tilts his head, arm still firmly over Santiago's neck, fixes her with a warm gaze.

"Raised him from a colt, first thing he heard when he dropped was my voice. If he understands anyone, it's me." He smiles, just a little tilt of mouth, one sided and rye. His hair's worked from its tie and she reaches up, smooths a strand back behind his ear. She's looking at him with the same open warmth from earlier, crinkled crows feet and lips in a wide smile.

"Why Christian Kane, I do believe you love that horse more than pie." She says it soft, like a low burning fire.

He looks down, tries to hide his blush. When he looks up, its just a tilt of his head, all hot eyes and desire. He smiles.

They don't make it back to the cabin.

Shy swears, Christian growls. Her tiny hand works into his dungarees, he works frantically at her belt. It's rough and fast, his coat makes their bed and she insists he lay back, wants to ride him but she's been on top since this started and he wants to fuck. He rolls them down onto his coat, tugs her shirts out of her trousers, gets a hand on her skin.

She soft as hot silk. Makes him crazy every damn time he gets a hand on her, wants to cradle her in his arms and make her shake and come. His hand slips down and he works her trousers open, pushes them down and she wiggles them off. He looks up at her and that's about it. Once she's laid open under him, hot and ready, he goes blind with want. Kisses her hard, settles into the cradle of her hips, tilts, holds his cock until he's poised at her pussy and there's no stopping him.

She loops a hand over his neck and tilts her hips into him, shaking, demanding.

His thigh screams, the breeze is cold on his back and legs, Santiago clatters towards them, but he can't hear anything. Can't see anything but her. Can't feel anything but burning hot pleasure. If this is the sin he's heard so much about, he vows to commit this as often as he can. Shy's grip on his neck is a tight hot brand, her grip on his cock the same, and he ruts into her, shifts, slides a hand under her ass, then thigh and lifts, and she cries out, head back.

She takes a ragged breath, the veins on her neck stand out, eyes wide and unseeing and she clamps down on him, her belly tensing, releasing. He feels the slick of her release, pushes, jams into her, tight, rides the pulsing grip, one hand under her, the other on the small peak of her breast. He presses his lips to her neck and thrusts, feels his balls ache, he's strung high and tight. Climax rolls through him, bliss and ache combined.

He's breathing hard, up on his elbows, trying not to crush her. Feels the velvet whiskered touch of horse muzzle on his ass and he rolls, shouting, swatting. Santiago grips the edge of his shirt and flips his head softly, pulling. Christian tries to look fierce, glares but Shy ruins it with a breathy laugh, one arm across her chest, the other hand on his neck.

He looks at her, golden hair spread across the chestnut corduroy of his coat, skin white and pink by turns, his cock still inside her, and his humiliation and embarrassment wash away.

Realization dawns like morning in the canyon, slow, agonizingly beautiful and utterly wild.

He's in love.


	3. Don't be Afraid of a Lady with a Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easter Egg from Morgan's Free Rangers: A Tale of Courage and Daring in the Tayasha Badlands
> 
> author: wede-fic   
> rating: PG-13  
> characters: Holly Hunter/Christian Kane  
> summary: The past come's a callin. But Christian's done runnin.

The wind picks up in the Canyon toward the end of September. Christian listens to it whistling and crying around the rocky crags, while he lays warm in their bed, Holly in the curve of his arm. He tries to remember what he used to be running from and wonders at what moment that changed.

He catches the click of spur on stone in the sudden silence between gusting winds, and the old remembered fear shoots through him. His hand slips from under his head, drops and slides under the pillow, clasps the smooth handle of his Sussex colt. He listens so hard he forgets and when Holly moves he tightens his arm, protection instinctual.

She hisses, her belly tight under his hand.

“Lay still.” He whispers, a grainy wisp of sound.

Holly slides her hand from under the pillow. He sees the movement, a slide through the periphery of his vision, catches the glint of moonlight on the silver barrel of her pistol. She clasps his hand on her belly, her tiny palm barely covers the back of his broader one, and he feels the clench of terror in his chest.

Fear of losing Holly turns him white. His grip on the Colt is so tight, the muscles on his hand ache and he lets her go so he can roll to the floor. He lands in a crouch and freezes, listening. The bed rustles and a breath later, Holly's beside him, indistinguishable from the darkness around them, but a warm breathing presence.

Shadows pass the window, block the moonlight coming in and Chris leans back instinctively though he's in the deep dark of the room. He counts steps, ten to the corner of the cabin, maybe five more to the door, aims and puts four bullets through the planking. There's a scream and scrabbling in the dirt followed by footsteps fading away.

Holly touches his arm, he braces, pulls her behind him.

“Damn it, Kane.” Her voice is an angry whisper.

He turns on her, toward where he thinks she is and she's right there. He puts his free hand on her face.

“Shy.” He grinds out.

“Let me help you, Christian. Please.” She clasps his wrist, brushes her lips against his. His heart pumps hard. He knows she's right, knows two guns are better, faster than his one. Saying yes is the single hardest thing he's ever done. He nods.

She presses another kiss to his lips and he drops his hand down around her waist, hauls her in tight, fucks her mouth with his tongue. Battle nerves make him hot and hard fast but there's a fight to finish and he won't let himself let her get killed.

She pushes him away and he goes up on his toes, low walks towards the window. It's inky dark outside but he chances a quick look and sees nothing. Holly goes to the door, slips the wooden latch and gently tips it open. Moonlight makes the ground hazy blue gray. She's been looking at this ground for longer than she wants to remember so the jumbled pile of limbs is distinguishable instantly. Two men, one still breathing, groaning softly. She closes the door and low walks towards him.

“Two men, both down.” She whispers. He nods.

“Guess you're not staying here.” He says low and rye.

“Not a chance, Cowboy. Now get your boots on.” He can hear the sweet humor in her teasing voice.

They pull clothes and boots on silent after that and he goes for the rifles by the door jam, stuffs rifle rounds into the pocket of his trail coat. Feels like an hour but it's only a minute later they're at the door, Holly just sheathing her buck knife.


	4. The Sussex Colt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Tales from the Tayasha  
> WIP Amnesty

They split up and spread out along the canyon rim. The sky pinked and then pearled to blue before Chris got close enough to see anything. He knew who it was. Not the nameless guns he shot at the cabin, but the hunter, their boss. Knew it in his bones and it terrified him. And filled him with a fury.

He dropped down into the arroyo, the walls near their end of the canyon are short, not more than four feet and he hit the sandy bank with a grunt. The jolt of pain from his wounded thigh made him wince and he bent over, hands on knees. His feet were the last thing he saw before he hit the sand, unconscious.

*~*

Took him the best part of a minute to come to. 

The roll and jolt of the saddle cutting his belly told him where he was and he cursed his stupidity but the wooden bit in his teeth turned the words to a soft grumbling hiss. There was a waxed canvas over him, and he could just make out the sandy trail and short scrub of the valley floor as it slid by.

His head throbbed, down low in back by his hairline, and he felt sick. In his belly and at heart.

*~*

They stopped before dusk.

Rough hands pulled him from the horse, backwards, and he fell, feet first to the ground, aching, hands numb under the ropes.

He tried to curl in, knees up, head down but those same hands grabbed and pulled, lifted him by aching shoulders, walked him bent over, to the fire.

"Hello, Christian." The voice said, gruff and too well known. He lifted his head and met Harmon's eye, cool and blue and familiar. He tried to frown but the bit in his teeth and the sweat in his eyes made it difficult. His belly twisted with fear and anger. Harmon's gaze didn't waver, even as his men busied around the fire, cooking, laying out bedrolls, trading quiet words.

"Shalim." Harmon said, quiet and dangerous.

"Yessir," Said the man in question. He was tall, taller than Christian but not as tall as Harmon.

"Get him up." Harmon growled. Shalim dropped his bedroll and walked toward Christian, face calm, eyes cool. Christian tensed, instinct screaming at him to run, but his legs were stiff and pained and all he could manage was a wriggling crawl backwards. Not nearly enough to evade the hands that dragged him up. He struggled all the same, threw himself into Shalim and then let himself fall, a heavy dragging weight in Shalim's arms.

Harmon's fist across his jaw put a stop to that and he saw stars, blinked rapidly against the pain and sagged, held off the ground by his shoulders, feet dragging in the dirt. His hair hung in his eyes, shaggy and dirty, and sweat stung his cut lip. Harmon and Shalim slung the rope tail from his wrists over a low hanging branch, tightened it against him, made his shoulders pull and strain.

Harmon fingered the tail of Chris's shirt, the checked chambray hanging free from his trousers and, smiling, let it go with a tug.

"Cut this off." He said and Christian heard the telltale hiss of the long Bowey knife leaving its sheath.

*~*

Holly rode hard.

Her little cayuse had heart but no speed, so she bribed Santiago with sugar and packed fast as she could. Kosse was a days ride south but she'd tracked them along the canyon's rim and the trail led north and west. She guessed they were bound for Chinook Federation for reasons she couldn't quite let herself think about. Just teased her way onto Christian's leggy thoroughbred and rode west to Juarez Pass.

She needed Rangers.

*~*

Took her two solid days of hard riding. Santiago settled into a long, ground eating stride, smooth and easy to ride. She stopped for water but sleep was as far from her as the great western sea so she watched Santiago and the stars and tried not to let the fear eat her whole.

Dawn of the third day broke as she made her way down into Juarez Pass. The town was bigger and noisier than anywhere she'd been in a long time. Pioneer wagon trains spread out from the town's border, fires already burning and busy in the early morning light, and folks on horseback streamed in and out from the main street of town.

She pulled up in front of the town mercantile, Craig's Emporium and General Merchandise, slipped thankfully down from Santiago's back, stumbled on tired legs and because she forgot how tall Christian's thoroughbred was. Strong arms caught her and she struggled to slip and turn, to see who held her. She pushed with her hands, looked up and up into black eyes under a black hat and a chill ran through her. He released her immediately and shifted his weight back.

"My apologies, Senora." He said, voice calm, eyes turned kind. He swept his hat off and bowed slightly. "Captain Bratt. Juarez Acordadas." He held out his hand and she took it, bemused. Seemed her luck had improved. She smiled big, relieved and genuine.

*~*

He rode astride the next day, behind Shalim, cheek pressed to the dusty linen of Shalim's shirt, arms tied around the slim waist.

Harmon had wielded the singletail himself leaving Christian's back an angry mass of bruises. He'd stood it for as long as he could but in the end they'd removed the gag so he could vomit without killing himself. He knew Harmon wouldn't really damage him. He couldn't, not without losing his bounty. And he'd made no secret of the fact he took Christian's ability to slip him personally.

They'd finally left him alone, cut down to lie in his own sick.

*~*


End file.
